


shield

by PersasseusJacksasson



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Eventual Fluff, I Love You, I promise, Tim Drake is a Good Brother, Whump, i feel bad for tim, im sorry tim, so im gonna give him a chapter full of fluff later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-17 11:08:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21053390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersasseusJacksasson/pseuds/PersasseusJacksasson
Summary: The silence in the corridor troubled him, and he tensed, bracing himself before wrapping a hand around the doorknob.He was met with the sight of a man pointing a gun, not at him, but at an unconscious Drake’s head. His partner was binding Drake’s wrists together. They both froze when he entered.Immediately, a second gun was pointed at him.Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompts : Kidnapping and Captive Push





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I’m combining this ‘Kidnapping’ prompt with ‘Captive Push’.
> 
> Warning : Some whump

Tim reached for a glass of cocktail, tucked amongst the glasses of champagne. The strong scent of alcohol hung in the air.

He took a small sip of his drink, the sour liquid leaving an acrid taste on his tongue. It was only to blend in with all the snobbish rich people in this gala. He would much rather be chugging a cup of coffee.

“Mr. Drake! Is it true that Bruce Wayne is dating the Batman?”

“Is Dick Grayson really in Hong Kong?” _ (No, he's right across the room) _

“Did Jason Todd really die?”

_ Ah, the worst part of a gala... _reporters.

He flashed a charismatic smile at them, emulating his inner Bruce, internally wishing for a cup of coffee, and his bed.

* * *

It was three hours after that that he began to feel nauseous. He stumbled out of the ballroom, and towards the bathrooms. Bile rose up his throat and he swallowed it down, gagging. His vision was tunneling as he threw open the doors. 

He barely made it to the sink before emptying out his stomach. The pungent smell of vomit filled the air. He retched again, gripping the edge of the sink as his head swam.

_ It was probably because of my sleep deprivation _, he berated himself.

His stomach felt empty, but the overwhelming urge to vomit was still there. He wiped his mouth with the running water, and splashed a few drops on his face.

Black dots flitted across his vision, and he slid down onto the floor, resting his head against the wall, before his vision turned black, just as he heard the door creaked open.

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, Damian saw Timothy stumble out of the room. Incompetent fool, he couldn’t believe that he actually tried to murder this imbecile, when he was clearly about to die from his own inability to look after himself.

He turned back towards the overly decorated stage, his father climbing off it. Grayson flashed a smile at him as he walked towards them.

“Damian, can you find Tim? It’s time for his speech,” Bruce asked casually. Damian rolled his eyes at his adopted brother’s inability to keep track of time.

“Fine,” he growled, and stomped out of the room, muttering curses at Timothy Drake while doing so.

He trudged outside, confused at the lack of people there. But that wasn’t the problem for now, he just had to find _ Drake. _

He headed towards the bathroom, the only possible location for an imbecile like Drake to be in, most possibly puking his guts out from a common cold due to his lack of a spleen.

The silence in the corridor troubled him, and he tensed, bracing himself before wrapping a hand around the doorknob.

He was met with the sight of a man pointing a gun, not at him, but at an unconscious Drake’s head. His partner was binding Drake’s wrists together. They both froze when he entered.

Immediately, a second gun was pointed at him. Damian wasn’t worried, he could easily take them, but one mistake was all it would take for Drake to have a bullet embedded in his brain, and Grayson to be distraught, and that would be unacceptable.

He tensed, running through every possible scenario. There was only one where Drake didn’t end up dead, and that was to give himself up. 

He was confused with himself. _ Why wouldn’t he want Drake to die? Isn’t that what he had always wanted since the beginning? _

He slowly raised his hands in the air as a sign of surrender. He knew that he was fast, but not faster than a speeding bullet.

He stealthily tapped the cuff of his sleeve, activating the distress alarm. He knew that it would take a while, as his father and Grayson were at the party. For now, he would have to stall.

He opened his mouth to speak, when a tall, muscular man pointed at him. “Mike! That’s Wayne’s youngest! Imagine the amount of money our boss can earn from this! We can get double of what we originally intended,” he exclaimed excitedly.

_ Mike _apparently shared his excitement. He removed the gun aimed at his scalp, and directed both at Drake.

“If you don’t come with us, kid, your brother dies.”

Damian scoffed. _ Drake wasn’t his brother. _

He froze as a man approached him and wrapped a rope tightly around his wrists, shoving a gun at his head.

He didn’t know what compelled him to do so, but he found himself marching alongside the two men, one hoisting an unconscious Drake over his shoulder, a gun still aimed at his skull.

He growled as the other man shoves the butt of his gun in between his shoulder blades.

“Move faster, kid!”

He stumbled forward, jogging quickly to keep up with the moron carrying Drake. 

They arrived in the lobby, and Mike extended one hand as a gesture. 

“There’s too many guards, Jake.” He muttered, readjusting Drake over his shoulder.

Jake simply smirked. He used his free hand to fish around his pocket for. He pulled out a small device. It was a smooth, metal sphere, with a tiny button on top. Damian’s stomach filled with dread when he recognized the machine for what it was.

Jake let the electromagnetic pulse roll across the floor. The lights flickered for a second, before everything was dark. He knew without checking that it had fried the distress signal.

_ Morons, they’re just going to get the Bat’s attention on them. _

He whipped around, about to use the darkness to his advantage, when he heard a click.

“No funny moves, brat, or I’ll shoot Timothy Drake,” a gruff voice sounded to his left.

Damian breathed hard, but stayed still until the other man moved close enough to grab ahold of him.

He was grudgingly marched out the grand double doors of the hotel, where a sleek black van waited. He was shoved inside, one man sitting shotgun while the other dumped a limp Drake beside him, climbing in afterwards.

The chairs were made of leather, and Damian resisted the urge to kill the man in front of him for animal abuse. The windows were tinted black, and he opted to take note of Drake’s injuries instead.

Drake looked pathetic. His face was pale and body trembling.

‘Mike’ seemed to notice his trail of thoughts, and smiled haughtily. “He’s alive, just under a lot of drugs. We wouldn’t get any cash if he were dead. See, our boss needs a lot of cash to pull off his next heist, and we’re running short on it. So what better way to earn than to kidnap the children of the richest man in Gotham?”

Damian bared his teeth at him. “And who is your boss?”

Mike raised his eyebrows tauntingly, casually slipping a hand to the gun placed dangerously close to Drake. “You’re not in a position to ask questions, kid. But, I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

The van skidded to an unsteady stop, jostling the three of them. 

“HEY! Watch it, Jake!” Mike exclaimed furiously. 

He threw Drake over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and aimed his gun to his head.

He was marched through the dark into a shabby, old warehouse, and into a cell where Mike dropped Drake onto the cold basement floor, and shut the doors behind them.

Hushed whispers were heard as Damian positioned his adopted brother in an upright position, back against the wall.

Footsteps pounded against the floor as a loud cackle echoed, and a man stepped out of the shadows.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Read the tags 🔝

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me so long, I'm sorry. I have no excuses.

“And this gala tonight commemorates the unveiling of the new Wayne project—,” Bruce suddenly froze mid-way through his sentence, glancing at his beeping watch.

Dick imitated his actions, glancing at the screen of his identical watch and the distress signal from the corner of his eyes. He was flocked with women, gold diggers all wanting a share in the Wayne fortune. 

What made it even more worrying was that the signal was from Damian, the most prideful of the Robins, the least likely to ask for help. 

“Excuse me,” he pushed past the crowd of people around him. On stage, he could see Bruce struggling to quickly wrap up his speech, but it was near impossible with all the queries the guests were asking him.

He hoped that Jason, who was currently patrolling in Crime Alley, would get to them on time. However, that was unlikely, since he was on the other side of town.

He ended up ducking under a table, hiding from the hordes of people lusting after him. This was one of the only moments he wished that he wasn’t that hot.

Bruce joined him in the hall outside, letting out a simple grunt as they raced towards the bathrooms—where the alarm was activated.

Suddenly, the lights went out, plunging them into pitch black darkness. Dick stumbled, pulling up a map of the hotel. The dim glow cast shadows on his face, as he grabbed Bruce’s arm and pulled him to their destination.

The room was empty when they arrived, all traces of both boys gone. Bruce used his infrared scanner to examine the scene. There were heat signatures of two men, and one big blot of patterns on the scanner where it looked like someone had laid. A smaller set of footprints were on the floor near the door.

All of a sudden, the window creaked open, and in climbed the Red Hood. He glanced at the two occupants of the room for a brief second, before shutting the window.

“Where’s the brat?” He drawled, “Got his distress alarm but was on the other side of town.”

* * *

That top hat. The ridiculous, hideous, revolting hat that Penguin always wore was tilted to the side, as if it was mocking him.

Damian sneered, fingers stealthily untying his binds. They were tight and secure, but it was nothing he couldn’t undo.  Suddenly, he felt a prick in his arm. He spotted a red dart buried in his arm just as he sensed a man hiding in the shadows, holding a blowpipe.

A drug— a fast acting sedative, judging by the instant lightheadedness he felt—had coated the tip of the dart. Damian mentally chastised himself for not noticing the man sooner. A simple mistake like this could prove fatal.

Penguin cackled, a loud, piercing sound that annoyed him to no end. If it wasn’t for his pathetic excuse of a brother, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

“Imagine the cash we can get when Wayne pays up!” His voice boomed as he twirled his umbrella and leaned on it. His mouth was stretched into a cruel grin, his eyes dancing victoriously.

“Two-Face will be on the losing side of this war, with all the resources we would be unstoppable!” The rotund man guffawed madly.

One knot down. He shifted a little and wiggled his wrist to loosen it. Even if he managed to untie the knots, the cell doors were still tightly sealed and he wouldn’t be getting out anytime soon.

His fingers slowed. He tuned out the mad cackles of the man and the thunderous bang as he slammed the basement door shut as he exited. His fingers tugged at the binds, loosening it.

He blinked the black dots in his vision away, swaying as he tried to stay upright. He leaned against the wall, beside the spot where Drake laid.

The untied rope fell to the ground, just as black dots swarmed his vision, and he fell too.

* * *

Tim woke with a start when the door to the basement slammed against the opposite wall. He blinked to clear his foggy vision.

He had a pounding headache and his back ached, probably from being propped up against the wall for god-knows-how-long.

He reached out to stretch, but his arm wouldn’t budge. A sharp pinprick of pain pierced his arm, and he hissed. He shut his eyes for a second, before snapping them open.

As he predicted, he was in a cell. Cool cuffs rested around his wrists, binding them behind his back.

The end of the chain was attached to a hook nailed loosely to the wall. He could probably use it to pick the lock.

“Drake,” a voice he knew all too well, scratchy from the drugs they no doubt used on him, gasped.

Damian was tucked in a corner, curled in on himself, shivering slightly. Handcuffs were also secured around his wrists, bruises around his wrists showed the telltale signs that he had tried to escape his bonds. A short rope lay next to him, as if it was hastily dropped on the ground. His shirt was crumpled, like he had faced a slight scuffle before this. Their blazers were left in a haphazard pile on the floor.

Tim nearly groaned, it was bad enough that he was kidnapped, and high on drugs. He could probably escape himself, but adding  _ Damian  _ into the equation..

A hand rattled the cell doors, and they both jumped. A familiar man stood there. His top hat lay crooked on his balding head. The vest he wore was unbuttoned, revealing the white collared shirt he wore underneath.

“Penguin,” Tim snarled, fingers clenching into fists. The man smirked, a sinister look on his round face. His long, hooked nose grazed the edge of the bars, and Tim resisted the urge to break it.

He cackled, screechy and high-pitched. There was a crazed look in his eyes, his monocle enlarging his left eye. His fingers trembled slightly, as if in anticipation of something. He held a familiar black umbrella, dangled by a chain attached to his right wrist.

He flicked his left wrist, and two men walked up to him. Their faces were covered by a thick, black face mask.

One of the men stepped forward with an iron key, covered in rust, and opened the doors with a loud click.

Tim moved to dart forward, kicking out when the cuffs tugged at his wrists. He watched with grim satisfaction as his foot connected with Penguin’s head, which snapped back sharply.

It was a pathetic attempt at escape, he knew that, with the other two guards standing there, guns drawn, the cuffs around his wrist, and Damian being too high to fight.

The look on Penguin’s face was terrifying. He knew from Bruce’s files and experience that unlike the majority of the criminals in Gotham, Oswald Cobblepot was very much sane, and that made him even more frightening.

His face was flushed with anger, eyes twitching. Tim could hear the  _ clack _ as his teeth clenched, causing his body to shake in rage.

To his surprise, Penguin merely sneered. “Take the little one,” he commanded, then stalked out of the room.

One of the two men tucked his gun back into its holster. The other pointed it at Damian.

Tim didn’t know what came over him, but he found himself involuntarily taking a step to his right, in front of his younger brother.  _ (Later on, when recounting the story to Bruce, he would say that he had no recollection of this, and vehemently denied it, despite Damian’s insistence that he did.) _

“Move,” one of the men growled. Tim stayed rooted there, glaring intensely at the two men.

He stepped into a fighting stance, an awkward one with his arms behind his back. 

The two men, who he decided to call Bacteria and Fungi, for lack of a better name, were imbeciles, to put things lightly. 

Tim used that opportunity to kick the gun out of Bacteria’s hands with enough force to knock him back. 

He quickly got back up and ran at Tim. Tim finagled his hands around to catch the flying kick, but it still knocked him into the wall. He dodged down before Bacteria could pin him down, dropping down and ducking between his feet. 

He blocked the next punch with his manacles, smirking smugly as he watched the blood bead on his knuckles.

“Wayne,” a rough, gravelly voice called out.

His smirk vanished when he turned to see Fungi holding a gun to Damian’s temple. The small child was curled into a ball, shivering. He had been backed into the corner, unable to defend himself.

That split second was all Bacteria needed to pin him to a wall. He watched as Fungi roughly hoisted Damian onto his shoulder, causing him to wince as his ribs connected with the man’s shoulder blades.

“Wait!” He exclaimed, making a last ditch effort to push Bacteria off of him. “Take me instead.” 

The two guards glance at each other.  _ Please be considering it _ , Tim silently hoped, ceasing his attempts at escape in an attempt to appease them.

Fungi smirked cruelly, “Well there are more parts for Boss to torture.” 

Tim breathed a sigh of relief, even as Damian's eyes widened. He thrashed as he was dumped on the cold floor, and made a move to get up. His attempts were easily thwarted by Fungi, who placed a foot on his chest, preventing any further movements.

He was forcibly shoved forward, a rough hand squeezing his elbow and leading him out. He could feel Damian gaping at him as he shuffled ahead, and was careful to avert his eyes. He didn’t know how his brother would react to  _ being considered too weak to handle this, _ and frankly, he didn’t want to find out.

He was almost to the doors when Damian cried out, sounding almost frantic. “Drake! You don’t have to do this! I’m not pathetic like you, I can handle myself!” He hesitated for a second, before quietly adding, “Father wouldn’t want his perfect son to get hurt.”

Tim’s heart broke then, for this little demon who just wanted his father’s love and affection. However, he kept up his facade and merely shrugged, “You’re the blood son, aren’t you?”

With a vicious grin, Bacteria forced him out the cell, while his partner got off Damian and the door slammed shut behind them.  
  


* * *

As soon as they disappeared around the corner, Damian collapsed to the floor. He was a total failure, powerless from preventing Drake from becoming a self-sacrificing buffoon.

_ But _ , there was a reason Drake was considered the most intelligent out of all of them. It was why Father clearly adored him the most, and Grandfather was so infatuated with him.

He had to have a plan. Or else he wouldn’t have surrendered himself that easily. Right?

So he waited, trusting that his brother had a plan, assuring himself that he did.

_ Drake had a plan.  
  
_

* * *

  
Tim did not have a plan. He wished he did though. The only plan he seemed to have was to wait it out until Batman arrived, which was a pretty pathetic plan. 

Right now, all he was concerned about was that his little brother was safe. As long as he was unharmed, then Tim would gladly take all the pain inflicted on him. It was what Bruce and Dick expected of him, and he would make them proud.

Suddenly, the butt of a gun connected with his head and he collapsed.

* * *

When he came to, the blinding fluorescent lights were the first things he saw, giving him a pounding headache. He blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the harsh lighting.

He shuffled around a bit, finding his wrists tied behind his back with handcuffs that dug into his skin. It was attached to a metal chain that was connected to a tall pole in the middle of the room. Only his hands seemed to be tied. The sounds of rain outside echoed around the warehouse, a stark contrast to the silence inside. He was alone in this room.

A quick scan of the room revealed only one exit route, the front door. It was barricaded by crates, and too far out of his reach.

He twisted his head backwards to examine the cuffs. It was similar to the ones used by the GPD. Normally, he could have easily picked the lock, but they had patted him down thoroughly, and his lockpick had been taken away.

A quiet squeak had him getting into a fighting stance. He heard the pitter-pattering of footsteps as a man, presumably Penguin, sauntered towards him.

He crouched into a dark corner, silently listening to the approach. Even though he was the one tied up, Penguin didn’t expect Tim Drake to be able to fight. He probably thought that he was some weak spoiled kid with a lot of cash.

He knew that he should just play the rich, helpless boy, but he had a date with Conner the day after tomorrow and he didn’t want to be covered in fucking bandages. Also, did Penguin seriously not expect him to take self-defence lessons? It’s fucking Gotham.

As soon as Penguin appeared, he rushed forward, delivering a hard kick to his nose. This was accompanied with a second kick between his legs, making him squawk in outrage and pain as he rolled about on the floor.

Just as he was about to kick him a third time, a sharp jolt from his cuffs made him stumble. The second that followed made him cry out as the electricity traveled up his arms. His wrists were starting to burn, despite the cool metal.

Fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezing. He thrashed, attempting to get some air into his lungs. Black spots danced across his vision as he tried to blink them away, lungs burning. 

It felt like hours, but the pressure on his throat was finally removed. He collapsed on the ground, gasping wildly for breath. He distantly heard the sound of metal clanking, but his brain refused to cooperate with him. 

_ At least this isn’t the Joker _ , Tim thought to himself,  _ and Penguin won’t hurt Tim Drake as bad as Red Robin. _

A sudden tug drew him out of his thoughts. He was pulled by the wrists towards the pole in the center. Too exhausted to attempt anything, he watched as Penguin hoisted the end of the chain, and wrapped it seven times around the pole. 

His reach now considerably smaller, Tim pulled at his cuffs futilely. His wrists were starting to bleed, and he hissed as the cold metal bit into his stinging wounds.

He forced himself to stand on wobbly legs, angling his body to brace for a hit, shoulders hunched.

Penguin had a menacing look on his face as he advanced towards him.

“I had initially thought to just let you sit there and take a picture to send to Wayne, but this is simply outrageous! Wah!” He squawked, a glint of fury in his eyes.

He stopped in front of him, levelling him with a look of contempt. Tim stared back at him, unflinching.

“I suggest you don’t fight me on this. After all, there’s always your brother to bargain with, your life is expendable.”

A thought seemed to occur to him and his lips curled into a smirk. “Or I could always torture him instead, scar that small, fragile body of his.”

Tim felt his breath hitch. He could already imagine Dick’s look of pain if that were to happen.

Penguin pulled out his phone. He dialed a number that Tim knew by heart, Bruce’s phone number.

“I have called your father exactly four times, and all those times, I get directed to voicemail.”

Tim figured that Bruce was somewhere in the Batcave, and his phone was in his room.

“Let’s put this simply shall we?” Penguin uncoiled a whip hidden under his long sleeve. “When Bruce Wayne picks up his fucking phone, I will stop.”

He brandished his whip. Tim backed up until the cuffs tugged harshly against his wrists.

The first strike felt like a lash of fire against his chest. Tim bit his lip to hold back his wince of pain.

He braced himself as he heard the whip whistle through the air, but was unprepared for the sudden burst of pain from his knees to his shins. He hissed in pain, stumbling backwards.

The hit that immediately followed afterwards caused his knees to buckle, and he landed on his side, moaning in pain.

_ You have reached the voicemail of Bruce Wayne. Please leave a message. _

The whip cut through the air, landing from his shoulder to his stomach. An involuntary scream was torn from his throat. 

He heard some shuffling while Penguin redialed the number. 

The whip was brought down continuously, only giving him breathing room whenever he had to redial Bruce’s number. Tim lost count after the thirteenth strike, bringing his knees to his chest and ducking his head in a pathetic effort to protect himself. 

He breathed unsteadily, his body felt as if it had been set on fire. The whip was brought down on his back, leaving a searing pain as it reignited the stripes of fire across his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, as every hit left a burning pain behind, hearing his screams die down to a weak rasp that sent sparks of pain through his abused throat. He felt blood trickle down his side.

_ You have reached the voicemail of _ —

Penguin  _ screamed  _ in frustration, throwing the phone across the room. When he turned to look at Tim, there was a sinister look in his beady eyes, the monocle enlarging one eye.

With a beastly howl, he grabbed Tim by the front of his shirt and landed a hard punch on his face. He was knocked to the ground by the force of the hit.

Penguin launched a series of kicks against his stomach. He felt and heard at least three of his ribs break with a sickening  _ crack _ . The pain was agonizing; he could barely breathe without feeling the sharp pain against his chest.

“P-please,” he begged, but barely any sound came out. His throat felt like it had been scraped raw and it hurt to utter even the slightest of sounds.

A kick to his already broken ribs made him scream hoarsely, a sound that sounded foreign to him. His throat burned  with the metallic taste of his own blood . He felt as if he had tried to swallow a jagged rock. It was excruciating.

“St-stop,” he tried again. If Penguin heard it, he didn’t acknowledge it.

At this point, his body was so alight with pain that it felt numb. He lay there, silently pleading for unconsciousness, barely moving except for slight twitches.

He felt himself being lifted, body hanging limply in the air. Suddenly, he was thrown across the room. The chain attaching him to the pole rattled, and the cuffs dug deeply into his flesh as it pulled him back.

A scream tore out of his pained throat. He felt his shoulder get wrenched out of its socket, followed by a blinding white hot flash of pain when he landed on one of his broken ribs.

He blacked out.

* * *

It had been exactly two hours, twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds since Drake had been dragged away by the filthy vermin. He had been left alone for the majority of the time, during which he had used the loose hook on the wall to pick the lock and shredded his jacket into strips to use as bandages that they would undoubtedly need, if the distant sounds of screaming were any indication.

He had been unpleasantly surprised by the fact that he didn’t even consider leaving Drake to fend for himself. He could easily escape and bring Father here, but by then, Drake would probably be dead from his injuries.

_ Damn _ family loyalty.

He sat on the hard, stone floor, anxiously waiting. 

All of a sudden, he heard the distant thudding of footsteps. He jumped to his feet, preparing himself to pounce on the men approaching. 

Two men walked into his line of view, dragging an unconscious Drake behind them. He couldn’t see the full extent of his injuries, but he could see that his brother was covered in blood that was definitely his.

This completely ruined his plan; if he were to attack the two men, they would drop Drake, and it would aggravate his injuries, possibly permanently injuring or killing him, and how would he ever explain that to Richard?

So he stood back as they laid Drake’s limp body on the floor and locked the doors behind them.

As soon as the men left, his first course of action was to check Drake’s pulse. It was weak, but still there. He was shivering slightly, and his body was icy.

He grabbed the strips of cloth he had cut earlier and gently bandaged his wounds.

He knew that if Father or Richard didn’t arrive soon, the wounds would become infected and drastically increase Drake’s chances of death. However, he fully trusted that they were on their way, and besides,, Drake had faced and survived far worse odds and would undoubtedly live through this.

_ Hopefully _ .

After bandaging his brother’s wounds, Damian picked the other jacket off the floor and carefully draped it over Drake’s shoulders. He stared at him for a moment, before curling up next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review Please!
> 
> This chapter feels so cringey and uhhh, but its been too long so I can’t rewrite it again (even if I do, it might end up worse), so hopefully it turned out okayish. And I literally have no creativity because I literally named those two perps Fungi and Bacteria but in my defense, I wrote that while studying for a science test..
> 
> Again I apologize for how long it took.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue you’ve been watching for ;)

It had been around five and a half hours since Tim and Damian had been kidnapped, and they had no leads. Bruce, Dick, and Jason were building a device to counter the EMP. Unfortunately, the device contained parts that could only be found in obscure locations across the globe, and Barbara, Cass, and Steph were in Hong Kong for a mission.

It was currently two in the morning, and Dick was screwing the final piece into the machine. They all watched anxiously; it was their first time attempting this machine, and they didn’t know whether or not it would work.

“Done!” Dick exclaimed victoriously. He turned the dial on the machine.

It let out a strong pulse of energy, causing the men to stumble back.

The lights in the Batcave lit up. The computer monitors displayed the various cameras around the area.

“We’re back online,” Dick affirmed with a menacing and downright terrifying smirk.  
  


* * *

When Tim woke up, he wished he hadn’t.

He had been awoken by the cell door banging against the wall behind it as it was roughly shoved open, causing him to jolt awake.

The movement sent excruciating pain coursing through his body. His head swam, and his body felt stiff and painful. He could feel the blood trickling down his slide, and he could smell the strong, metallic tang of it.

Distantly, he could hear some shuffling and a conversation, but was in too much agony to comprehend what was being said.

A sudden gunshot had him flinching, reigniting his torment sevenfold. The world stilled around him, wrapping him in a cocoon of darkness that blocked out everything around him.

“Take me instead, but leave my brother alone!” He heard Damian’s petulant voice, but couldn’t comprehend its meaning.

Everything felt so far away, fading out of reach. He could barely focus on his own breathing, much less the world around him. 

He barely felt arms pick him up, jarring his wounds, and faintly heard a child screaming before everything faded into black.

* * *

Tim awoke to darkness. His eyes felt like it had been sewed shut. The pain had dulled, as if someone had fed him a dozen painkillers. Tim couldn’t decide whether that was good or not for him.

He attempted to get up, to assess his injuries, but he felt binds tug against his arms. From that, he concluded that he had been strapped to a table to await whatever torture Penguin had in plan for him. 

Tim forced his eyes open. He was greeted with darkness. He wondered if he was concussed or if the room was simply pitch black.

A maniacal chuckle drew him out of his thoughts. 

“I see you’re awake,” Penguin snarled.

He walked into his field of view. Tim noticed that he wasn’t carrying the whip from yesterday.

Instead, he held a scalpel in one hand and his umbrella in another. He shuffled back, and Tim heard him set his umbrella aside. Tim swallowed, terrified,  _ this could only mean that whatever he’s going to do, he’s going to need both hands to do it. _

“I gave Wayne six hours, and he didn’t respond. Shows how much he cares about you,” Penguin muttered, loud enough for Tim to hear.

He knew that Bruce was probably not answering the calls because he was looking for him and Damian as Batman, not because he hadn’t noticed they were gone.

_ Right? _

Suddenly, he felt a burst of pain blossom in his abdomen. Penguin held the scalpel above his head, it was wet with his blood. A drop of it rolled off and hit his face.

He cackled, “At least I can still have my fun while waiting,”

A quick slash to his arm had him crying out in agony, as the new wound crisscrossed against the whip marks.

The Penguin’s face swum back into his line of sight. There was a crazed grin on his face that made Tim’s heart race erratically.

Then came a flurry of slices, slashes, and cuts. His yells dulled down to mere whimpers, and every new cut elicited a wince.

He slumped against the table, unable to do anything but lie there as Penguin covered every inch of his body with his own blood.

“Let’s make this more fun, shall we?” Penguin laughed sadistically.

He plunged the scalpel deep inside his stomach.

Tim screamed.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Damian did not hate Tim Drake. He was, though he was loath to admit it, simply jealous of him, of how he managed to commandeer the respect of both his father and grandfather.

He didn’t hate Tim Drake, in fact, he respected him.

But what he didn’t intend was for his brother to become a self-sacrificing imbecile and risk his own life for the safety of Damian’s.

He tried to stop them from taking him, throwing himself at them at one point and nearly biting off a finger, but his efforts proved futile as he watched his brother get dragged away.

He winced when he heard screams of pain, screams filled with pure agony. 

There should’ve been a way to avoid this. He was trained by the fucking League of Assassins and Batman, he should’ve been able to handle two goons with relative ease. But his worry for Drake had overwhelmed him and he had been unable to think of a single plan that could have gotten them out of the area without Drake sustaining any additional injuries.

Which was why it was all his damn fault.

Suddenly, a shift in the shadows outside his cell caught his attention. A dark blue material and the glint of light against the helmet.

Damian grinned, Richard and Todd were here. They were here to save them, to save Drake.

Nightwing threw him a questioning glance, silently asking him if he was alright.

“Get Drake first,” he pleaded, voice rough from disuse. He pointed at the direction Drake had been taken.

They must’ve sensed the urgency in which he said it, for they immediately bolted towards the hallway.

* * *

Jason raced up the hallway, heading towards the center of the warehouse, to where Tim presumably was. 

Fortunately, he heard no screams. Unfortunately, that could mean Tim was already unconscious, or worse, dead. 

They had left Damian behind, awaiting Bruce, who was fighting off the goons around the warehouse.

Jason leaped up the stairs three steps at a time, knowing Dick was doing the same. A door was at the top of the steps, and he flung himself against it.

The first thing he noticed was Tim, strapped to a table, bleeding from various wounds. Above him was Penguin, who had a hand wrapped around Tim’s skinny neck.

A wave of murderous rage overtook him. A red haze fell over him, and he raced towards Penguin, vision blurred with fury.

He saw Tim, bleeding profusely, screaming in pain, and it only served to fuel his anger. He punched Penguin in the face with enough force to simultaneously break his hooked nose and monocle. He watched with grim satisfaction as his head snapped back, allowing him less than a second of breathing room before he was on him again, raining blows on him and making him  _ bleed _ .

_ Because nobody harms his little brother and gets away with it. _

* * *

As they entered the room, Dick saw Jason run off to bash Penguin’s face in. 

_ Good _ , he thought,  _ that bastard deserves it _ .

As much as he wanted to pummel Penguin, he knew Jason would exact revenge for both of them. 

He raced towards Tim, pulling off the straps binding him to the table. 

Tim’s face was pale. He was slumped on the table, unconscious. Dick could see at least seventeen open wounds, each gushing blood. There was a scalpel lodged deep in his stomach.

Dick didn’t know whether Tim would survive the ride home with a knife in him—he didn’t know how long it had been in there—but he knew he wouldn’t take any chances.

Reaching into his utility belt, he grabbed a roll of bandages, and a batarang to substitute the scissors. He cut it at a considerable length, then set the roll aside. He carefully wrapped his fingers around the scalpel’s handle and slowly slid it out.

Blood immediately started pouring out of the deep wound. Dick quickly wrapped the bandages around the wound, tying it expertly into a knot in the end. He knew the bandages would only help for a brief period of time before he needed real medical attention, not to mention treatment against infections from the other wounds.  _ They need to get back to the Batcave immediately. _

He carefully lifted him up, letting his head lie on his shoulder. Even before his captivity, Tim had been really light. He shifted him carefully to avoid aggravating his injuries. 

He glanced at Jason, who had left a bloodied and beaten Penguin behind. (Jason didn’t want to kill him, he’d rather leave him in a full body cast and send him back to ICU just before his release.)

At that moment, Bruce and Damian ran in. The latter threw a concerned glance at him, or at Tim. He nodded in response.

Dick sighed in relief.  _ They were going home. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter Four

Alfred was ready when they got back. Steady hands helped lower the unconscious teen onto the bed, a movement that had become very familiar over the years of the old butler’s service.

It hadn’t been the first time he had seen one of his grandsons on this bed, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

So, he pulled on his latex gloves, and got to work.  
  


* * *

Two hours later, Alfred glanced at the heart monitor, the screen showing Tim’s slow and steady heartbeat. He carefully brushed his limp bangs out of his eyes, before silently treading out of the room.

He heard, rather than saw, soft footsteps patter into the room, as his youngest grandson lowered himself onto the seat beside the bed, and sat vigil.

Alfred knew that there was no convincing Bruce to drop his cape and cowl, not when the Batman was what Gotham desperately needed, and he was proud of the man he had become, truly, but everytime a child lay on his medical bed, unconscious and barely breathing, he had to ask himself,  _ was all this worth it _ ?

The answer was that it wasn’t. A child shouldn’t be out fighting for their life in the vile streets of Gotham every night. But as each young master proved to be more stubborn than Bruce himself, as being Robin gave them their freedom, their reprieve…

_ Who was he to stop them? _

So, he stayed by them, supporting them as their loyal butler, and patched them up after rough fights, even as it broke his heart to see scar upon scar added to their collection, even as they lay in the medical bed, dead or dying.

_ All for the good of Gotham. _

* * *

Damian had been sitting vigil in the chair for the past two hours, waiting for his  _ brother  _ to open his eyes.

After Richard had informed him that Timothy would pull through, he and Todd had retired for the night, knowing that it would be futile to get him to move.

Alfred (the cat) had stalked into the cave and curled up on his lap, followed by Titus, carrying a blanket that was presumably from Alfred (the human). The great dane had then curled up at the foot of Timothy’s bed.

He could still hear his father typing away on the Batcomputer, distracting himself with his work like he always did whenever one of them got injured. Damian wanted to drag him over and force him to talk about his feelings, but alas, that would be very hypocritical of him.

He burrowed himself further into the chair, laying his head on the armrest and tucking his legs to his chest. He pulled the blanket to his chin and watched, unblinking.

It would be at least an hour later when he sensed movement, and instantly jolted awake. He was greeted by the sight of one Timothy Jackson Drake staring sluggishly at him.

He opened his mouth, before realizing that he didn’t quite know what to say. He closed it awkwardly. The air around them became even more uncomfortable.

Tim cleared his throat. “Uhh, how are you?” 

Damian raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one hooked up to a bunch of machines in the med bay.”

Tim stared at the ceiling, pointedly looking away from him. “I would’ve thought you’d have left by now.”

“And why’s that?” He shot back defensively.

“I just…” Tim started, but stopped at the look of his face. “Never mind.”

They lapsed into an uneasy silence, neither wanting the conversation to end but not knowing what to say either.

“You’re a fool, Drake,” the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “A moronic, self-sacrificing, idiotic fool.”

Tim blinked at him. “So you’ve told me multiple times.

“Don’t you dare do that ever again.”

Tim had the audacity to look surprised. “You were actually worried?”

“Of course I was!” Damian exclaimed loudly, surprising even himself with his outburst. “You’re my brother and I can’t..” his voice cracked, and he stubbornly looked away. “I’m not worth it.”

He felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes and hastily blinked them away. He felt a pair of eyes on him, but he refused to stare back.

“Hey, look at me, Dames,” Tim breathed softly.

He looked up to see him smiling weakly at him. “You’ll always be worth it to me. You’re my baby brother, and it’s my job to protect you.”

“Why?” The word flew out of his mouth before he could process it. His tone was desperate. “I tried to kill you, multiple times. I threw you off the dinosaur.”

“Well I’m still alive now, aren’t I?” Tim joked feebly.

There was a moment of silence between them before Damian met his eyes. 

“Promise me…,” he started, eyes pleading. “Promise me that you won’t do that again, Dra- _ Tim _ .”

Hesitation briefly flashed in Tim’s eyes. “You know I can’t promise that.”

“But—”

“Let me finish,” he cut in, voice soft but firm. “I can’t promise that I won’t sacrifice myself to ensure you stay safe, that’s what we do as heroes, isn’t it?”

He paused for a second, reaching out to grasp Damian’s hand. He squeezed it gently, before continuing.

“But I can promise that I’ll do everything in my power to avoid this from happening again.”

Damian nodded silently, accepting it for now.

With his other hand, Tim patted the bed. 

“C’mere, and no complaints. I’m injured, so you have to listen to me, that’s a rule.”

“There is no such rule, but I suppose I should accompany you to ensure you do not aggravate your wounds due to your incompetence.” There was no bite to his words as he climbed into the bed beside Tim.

“Little shit,” Tim smirked.

Damian merely muttered a  _ tt  _ in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been so long since I last updated and I feel really bad about it. I don’t have any excuses. I've just been really lazy and I’m really sorry. But I’ve finally finished this so whew!
> 
> Should Tim have been able to talk normally after all the screaming I made him do in the last chapter? I have no idea. Do I care? Absolutely not.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Please leave a comment or kudos.

**Author's Note:**

> Review please!


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